Spy Games
by Mrs Dionysius O'Gall
Summary: Disguises. Subterfuge. Euro hauteur and a biker chick.


It is a silly thing to do, so middle school. But like a moth drawn to a flame, like those squishy slugs that come out on the sidewalk when it rains, she just can't help herself. There is considerable risk involved, but that doesn't matter to her anymore. Her life has been turned every which way and upside down. Today, her needs are simple: she has an urge to do this, an itch, that is driving her crazy. And she overwhelmingly needs to scratch that itch, or go crazy.

She preplanned the whole thing. At first, after watching an episode of 'Veronica Mars', she briefly considered hiring a private detective. But she supposed, they didn't work as cheaply as Veronica. She of course has a new source of funds, but one she prefers to not tap.

So, she decides to take a day off work and conduct the investigation herself. Standing in front of the mirror this morning, she peruses her reflection. Age is beginning to subtly carve itself into her skin; she thinks that if she flatirons her hair, she just might go on this adventure pretending she's Joyce from 'Hill Street Blues'. She makes a mental note that the first season DVDs are being released this week. Ah, Pizza Man.

Surreptitiously, as if anyone would know where she's off to, she slinks out to her vehicle and begins her journey. She's done all the pre-work, knows where she's going. The weather's mild today, so the journey is uneventful. Strangely, she's driving without musical accompaniment today, as if the choice of music could possibly influence her mission. And it's really not long after setting out on this itch-scratching road trip, definitely less than a half-hour later, that she gets to her final destination. And yes, she was buckled in an upright and locked position.

Spotting her target, she circles the block once, twice, thrice, quadrice? Nope, that's not a real word, but it really ought to be, she thinks.

Up until now, she's been surprisingly calm about her mission. But as she parks along the street, she absentmindedly fingers the top button of her blouse. Before she realizes it, fifteen minutes have passed and the top three buttons of her blouse are undone. She angles the mirror and adjusts her breasts and bra for maximum effect. But nervousness has taken hold of her and she begins a long inner debate about whether this is ethical and right. But hey, who's the wronged party here anyways? And that itch, that itch, just begging to be slathered in hydrocortisone or scratched and scratched into oblivion.

Another five minutes pass and she realizes that if she sits here all day, then someone who'll recognize her will be coming home and her window of opportunity will have passed. Her attention turns to the seat beside her, where the carefully assembled accoutrements of what she hopes will be a sufficient disguise sit scattered. She picks up the headscarf. It's a solid blue, and she covers her hair with it, regretting that she must disguise this asset. She glances into the mirror. The blue juxtaposed against her dark hair and pale creamy skin makes the blue of her eyes pop out. She ponders the scarf and its positioning. She could affect a religious purpose, didn't some plainclothes nuns sometimes wear scarves? And that nun on 'Desperate Housewives' was pretty hot. Or should she take her cue from more exotic areas, and adopt an accent and pretend she adhered to a faith that required covering the hair. Nah. She settles for Euro-frump, Sophia Loren on a bad day crossed with Claudia Cardinale in that one movie…

Sunglasses. Can't wear them, not on an overcast Connecticut winter day. They propped quite nicely on her head, though. It pains her also to not wear any makeup, but the possibility of being identified by her MAC Lady Danger lipstick is too risky. Fortified by a final glance in her vehicle's rearview mirror, she emerges from her vehicle and walks the one hundred yards to the front door of the establishment.

And as she approaches the building, the first cracks in her plan appear. She is suddenly stricken by a question, as she wonders if this is where IT happened. The immaculate conception. The place where Das Wunderkind was created. But she must not let that deter her from her mission, her appointed rounds. Standing at the door, she appraises the establishment with a practiced eye, then takes a deep breath. This is one of those life-altering moments, she realizes. Her ability to speak with an Italian accent along with being able to affect a certain hauteur will make or break this mission. Her mother, with an Italian accent, fits the bill.

The door yields and to her surprise, there's no tinkly tinkly bell. The place reminds her of that store in San Diego where Kate Hudson, that you-know-what who would have tried to take her kid's spot at Harvard, went to at the beginning of 'Almost Famous.' Studied messiness, that was it.

She begins to peruse the merchandise while scanning the establishment. It is of course the proprietor she is looking for. All she sees though, is what appears to be a woman biker-chick with her back to her.

"Be right out there," a voice that sounds like that woman in 'Boxing Helena' says.

She keeps up her guise of shopping, being careful to maintain her shopping disguise. She traverses the room, fingering the merchandise, picking this and that up. The proprietor is still nowhere to be seen, but now she hears her. It sounds like she is on the phone, and as she picks up a word or two, she realizes just who is on the other end of the line.

She assumes a studied, casual walk as she sidles up to the cash register, careful to remain out of the line of sight of where she assumes the proprietor could possibly see her. She backs up, continuing a carefully danced two-step as she tries to carefully position her head like an antenna. One more step, and she'll be able to hear the proprietor crystal-clear.

Her posterior though, has other ideas, as it promptly collides with the biker-chick.

Wheeling around, there's no getting past what she sees.

"Sookie!" she hisses.

"Lorelai!" her assailant replies in return, followed by a simultaneous "What are you doing here?"

If snakes held conventions, the hissing could not possibly measure up to the sounds emitted by these two.

"Aha! You're spying on her…" Sookie proclaims, wagging her finger.

"Her? Who? What?" she attempts in riposte.

"Luke's Baby Mama," Sookie replies.

"What?" she returns with an air of righteous indignation.

Sookie rolls her eyes.

"Does Jackson know about this…this?" Her hands sweep across the space in front of Sookie's body, looking all the more ridiculous from the front. "Where's your motorcycle, or did you ride in on a broom?"

"Ooh, that's a low blow…speaking of knowing, does Luke know you're here?"

"Shh…" she hisses back. "Of course not."

Sookie giggles. "And look at you! What the hell is that thing on your head? And those oversized sunglasses!"

"Find something you like?" The proprietor emerges, and Lorelai and Sookie get their first good look at her.

Damn. At least a cup size larger than Lorelai. And petite.

She stands there, somewhat expectantly, and encourages them to take their time, as she goes to a corner to arrange some shawls.

Sookie and Lorelai drift over near her. Sookie's already estimated her measurements and Lorelai is concentrating on the hair. She wonders, did he run his hands through the shopkeeper's hair the way he does now with hers? She wants to say something, but then she'd have to concentrate and use the Italian accent and instead she's following this woman around and absorbing her perfume's fragrance and wondering if this is what she doused herself with thirteen years ago.

The heavy clomp clomp of boots suddenly interrupts the silence in the establishment. Lorelai looks up, and it's all over. Said the spider to the fly…

Luke…walking in through the door.

"Hey Luke," three women greet him.

Busted. 


End file.
